


Negotiables

by srsly_yes



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Male Friendship, Sick!Wilson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-28
Updated: 2011-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 23:36:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/srsly_yes/pseuds/srsly_yes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cheese, trains, and wagers, pretty much in that order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Negotiables

**Author's Note:**

> It's a terrible title. Sorry. :(

He stood at the threshold and whooped, “Mommy!”

“Foreman gave me custody?” Wilson said, visibly unimpressed as he opened the door wide enough for House to enter. He instantly retreated to the kitchen.

House trailed behind. “And visitation rights.” As he turned the corner, the dry air gave way to a soft cloak of humidity. Wilson was already hunched over a bubbling pot, his left hand stirring and his right smoothing his shirtfront.

Discarded pasta wrapping from the local deli sat on the island along with a small bowl, a grater, and wedges of cheese--a mellow Romano and a darker, craggy Parmesan. A promising half-moon coated the glass when House tipped the container to confirm the contents. Heavy cream.

Intent on pinching a fat crumb of cheese, it flew from his fingers when a wooden spoon swatted his knuckles.

“Don’t you have any impulse control? We’re eating in ten minutes.”

Brazenly picking up two chunks as if they were a pair of dice, he tossed the cheese into his mouth and ground it to mush while displaying ample teeth and tongue. It was his way of showing his gratitude for the brusque dinner invitation. He basked in Wilson's wince of disgust.

Thirsty, he headed for the fridge, but Wilson cut him off at the door, blocking his view of the interior and snatching a frosty bottle of water off a glass shelf. Wilson handed it over and slammed the door shut.

“No beer?”

Another careful pat to the stomach. “Scaling back on calories.”

“They make light beer, you know.”

Without arguing, Wilson pointed to the sofa, practically ordering him to sit. House swiped a handful of cheese on his way to the couch.

* * *

Full, House ran his finger around his bowl. He caught Wilson’s eye as he sucked the thick Alfredo sauce off his finger. He burped.

Slumped against the couch, groggy from the meal, Wilson dismissed the crude noise with a token flap of his hand.

Assured that everything was nice and cozy between them, House nodded. “Fridge stocked with colorless food. Weight loss but good appetite. You’re relaxed and no longer protecting your stomach like there’s a bun in the oven. Duodenal.”

Wilson instantly snapped to attention. “You’re not at the hospital. Don’t you have an off switch?” He briefly pinched the bridge of his nose before snatching House’s bowl from his hands.

Wilson kept his head down as he concentrated on rinsing the dishes. The rush of water muted House’s footsteps as he limped toward the island. Elbows on the counter, he looked up at Wilson's face. “You lied to me about turning into a born again vegetarian. You said that to throw me off the scent when you refused the spicy goodness of the Reuben I got you as a peace offering.” He pointed to Wilson’s stomach pressed against the counter, the shirt splattered with dishwater. “You were almost back to normal until I returned to the hospital. Today's intercession with Foreman caused a flare up. You took a train collision to your gut.”

Gauging Wilson’s sigh, House knew he was right. He refrained from crowing when he said, “You worry about me.”

“Yes, House, I worry. After twenty years of friendship, it’s hard not to." Wilson tightened the tap, wiped his hands on a towel, and folded it neatly on the counter. “Since you went to prison…” Wilson shook his head, and pointed to House’s eye. “I imagined this and worse. Every day I expected a call.”

His traitorous shiner throbbed at the accusation.

Wilson pulled out a prescription bottle from a drawer, which House grabbed out of his hand. To his relief it was nothing worse than heavy-duty anti-acid tablets. He handed them back and said contritely, “Bet you fifty dollars I can go ten days without getting punched or Dark Vader threatening to send me back to prison.”

“It’s remarks like those, House…” Wilson’s mouth tightened in skepticism, but his eyes took on a gleam as he hesitated. “And go ten days without _you_ throwing a punch?”

“Seven.”

“You’re on.” Wilson’s face brightened. “How about some ice cream to seal the deal?” He produced two bowls from a cabinet. “Have you tried Ben & Jerry's Schweddy Balls since you got back?”

As Wilson scooped, House returned to the couch. He had the distinct impression that he was just played.


End file.
